


not the end

by v3ilfire



Series: between fields of fire and miles to go [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5066044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A silence settled between them, hardly recognizable in the caterwaul of war. Zevran’s eyes wandered to the lone earring hanging from the Warden’s right ear, gold and dripping with glittering gemstones. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Camilla raised a hand.<br/>“Stop, before you say anything. Just… don’t.”<br/>“I am not even allowed to say goodbye?”<br/>“No, because this isn’t the end.”<br/>“Surely, you cannot promise that.”<br/>“I can try.”</p><p>(or, a rewrite of the ending of DAO)</p>
            </blockquote>





	not the end

**Author's Note:**

> because i'm self-indulgent and can't resist, my "canon" warden surana (nevira) appears towards the end as a circle healer. let me live.

“Alright, I want the mages and archers stationed at every high point around the gates, keep as many of these monsters out as you can. Sten, Morrigan, you’re coming with us. Oghren, I want you to take the lead out here - give them something to run from. Wynne, keep everyone in one piece.”

Zevran’s face fell as soon as the Warden stepped down from the pile of rubble she had been yelling orders from. He saw the rest of their team approaching her, one-by-one, to say what could be their final goodbyes. Most received tired smiles and what he assumed to be an ill-timed joke, possibly a promise to come back alive. Alistair got his usual punch on the arm - how there wasn’t a dent in his armor, no one knew - and the dog received a tender pat on the head.

Camilla adjusted her quill on her back as Zevran approached her, the last of the thankful masses. He tried to smile at her, and she tried back, but both seemed too aware of what was to come for the effort to hold any success.  
“So, here we part ways,” he started, as if talking about splitting up for an afternoon’s shopping in Denerim and not this exchange possibly being their very last. “You… do not wish me to stand by you, in the end?”  
“What, and separate the famous Broma Brothers at the peak of their performance? I wouldn’t dare.”

Half of a grin forced Zevran’s mouth into some semblance of bemusement.

“Oghren told you about that, did he?”  
“He says a lot of things,” Camilla answered with a shrug. “I still can’t believe they bought it, to be honest.”

A silence settled between them, hardly recognizable in the caterwaul of war. Zevran’s eyes wandered to the lone earring hanging from the Warden’s right ear, gold and dripping with glittering gemstones. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Camilla raised a hand.  
“Stop, before you say anything. Just… don’t.”  
“I am not even allowed to say goodbye?”  
“No, because this isn’t the end.”    
“Surely, you cannot promise that.”  
“I can try.”

Camilla’s head turned at the sound of her name, to Alistair beckoning her towards the gates. Zevran placed a hand on the small of her back and nudged her forward slightly.  
“Go. Good luck.”  
“You, too. Don’t die.”

He almost did.

He wasn’t the only one, but the point remains. The battle outside the gate was an onslaught of Darkspawn like he’d never seen before; the Deep Roads had only been a preview of fighting the real hoard. There were gaps in the fray, but not so many that they could fully recover, and while the creatures came at them new and unharmed, their resistance became increasingly battered.

And then, just when they all thought that they would be overwhelmed, the ground shook and a bright light shot upwards from the top of Fort Drakon. Darkspawn and Fereldan alike stopped to stare at it, and whispers of what happened? and did we win? flooded the area in lieu of the clashing of steel. The cheering started as soon as the first Darkspawn ran for the retreat, each person boisterous and proud, just glad to have made it to the other side of the war.

Everyone, of course, except Zevran.

The castle, while damaged, was still easily the most stable structure in Denerim. Survivors were fit inside and in the courtyard in the immediate aftermath, servants scrambling to find food and medics and healers alike tending to as many injuries as they could. The Wardens’ companions were gathered and lead upstairs to be tended to separately. They were all lacking the enthusiasm of the rest of the congregation, too tired and nervous to celebrate and call for food and drink. There was still no sign of the four that went off to kill the dragon.

Their arrival was not subtle, however. The great hall filled with a reverent silence as soon as the door opened, and the crowds parted to let them pass. A maidservant flew into the room where the bulk of the party remained to yell, “They’ve returned!” and run out again.

Everyone made for the door, managing to get just past it when all but Morrigan rounded the corner. Alistair was leaning quite heavily on the wall, smiling at the sight of all their friends. Sten was bleeding from the head and limping slightly, but both of them were a far sight better than Camilla, who looked even smaller in Sten’s arms than she did standing upright. She was pale and bloodied, her hand dangling lifelessly over Sten’s arms.

Zevran’s stomach dropped. Nobody moved for far too long, until one of the healers bustled up the stairs and began to push the party towards the makeshift infirmary they’d set up.  
“Please, we have to get your injuries taken care of. Right this way!”

The door shut behind them before anyone could interject, and that was that.

For the next three days, nobody could get any answers from any of the healers that weren’t incredibly vague or dismissive. The only reason anyone thought the Wardens were still alive was because no one had yet declared them dead, even if they looked mighty close. It was at the end of the third day that Zevran was woken from a shallow sleep by a healer’s hand on his shoulder.

“Warden Cousland has asked to see you.”

The infirmary was little more than a converted bedroom, smelling so intensely of elfroot that Zevran’s headache dissipated immediately.

Camilla was not in her bed. Zevran turned to Wynne who, along with the lead healer, Nevira, was helping Alistair to his feet. As with any time they visited Redcliffe, the King was failing rather desperately at hiding his blush and his puppy eyes towards the elf, but at least she did his dignity the favor of being completely oblivious. Zevran would have suggested something lewd if his heart wasn’t beating its way out of its ribcage with a fervor.

Wynne caught his eye, and gestured towards a chair by the empty bed.  
“They are merely redressing her wound, Zevran. I would suggest you try and wipe the terror off your face, lest she sees you and begin to wonder if she’s going to die after all.”

Zevran took the seat as he was instructed, just as Nevira finally got Alistair up and onto his feet.  
“Come now, Your Highness. We need to get you out of bed. Let me know if your leg starts hurting you again.”  
“What, this?” he said, gesturing to his swollen left ankle. “That’s just how Wardens and Archdemons greet each other. He crushes my leg, I slice his face open with a sword, and then we shake hands and pour each other tea.”  
“Pardon me for saying so, but I would decline an invitation to that party every time.”  
Alistair chuckled and, having finally found his balance, let her lead their way out of the room, Wynne following close behind.

The door to the next chamber opened as soon as they left, and another medic entered with Camilla leaning heavily on his shoulder. Zevran leapt up from the chair to help them, much to the red-faced medic’s relief. He lifted the Warden up, and placed her safely into her bed. Once the covers were over her once more, he sat down on the very edge of it, minding how frail she looked in all her bandages. Camilla watched the medic bustle back out of the room with a huff, and as soon as the door shut, sighed.

“You didn’t die.”

Zevran did not know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He settled for laughter.

“Neither did you, mi amor. I suppose I will have to burn the beautiful eulogy I wrote for you last night. I did my best to describe some of your finer qualities in the utmost detail. It is a shame. I captured your rear end perfectly.”  
Camilla smiled at him, and shook her head.  
“Please burn that.”

Without thinking, Zevran cupped the side of her face, well aware of the golden earring still hanging secure from her ear.  
“They are calling you the Hero of Ferelden, you know. Isn’t that grand?”  
Camilla shrugged, turning her head just enough to lay a kiss on his palm.  
“I’m being named Warden-Commander, as well. They want me to get the Order back up and running in Amaranthine.”  
“Will you?”  
“Eh, fuck if they’re giving me a choice in the matter.”

Zevran removed his hand from her face only to have it caught in her grasp. She let their tangled hands lay across her stomach, her thumb running along the edge of a scar near his wrist.  
“So you intend to stay and serve?”  
“Do you intend to leave?”  
“Staying in one place may invite the Crows to come after me that much faster. But… I believe you are now stuck with me, no? So I will stay. And if I have to go, you have my word that I will always return.”  
“Oh, good. I was about to threaten to hunt you down myself.”

He laughed with a lightness that he hadn’t felt in weeks, ever since the battle with the Archdemon became a looming reality instead of a nightmare on a cold night. Just in the last five minutes, an enormous weight had lifted off his shoulders. Not even the Crows could take that from him.

“You ought to rest, so that you may follow up on claims like that. I will let you sleep.”

Camilla grinned as he leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead, and released his hand so that he could leave her side and move towards the door.

“I will see you tomorrow, mi amor.”  
“You’d better.”

He left the room content with the knowledge that, as far as either of them could help it, it would never be goodbye.

 

 


End file.
